Memorable

I remember the way my mother's slippers sounded as they crunched down our driveway. Her legs aren't exactly long, but if you measured her steps you would swear she was four feet tall. Her strides were short, quick and determined. Arms swinging only from the elbow down as she leaned forward, eyes on the ground in front her, while I trotted behind... begging to join her for coffee at Mrs. Meimerstorf's house.

On the rare occasion I was admitted to the roundtable discussion where three carefully coiffed perms bobbed in agreement. Lipstick stains on steaming coffee cups and cigarette smoke swirling over the oak dining room table. The three women, neighbors and third shift co-workers, car-pooled and raised their children together. These meetings happened at least once a week. It was an hour or two of time away from kids, from husbands, from bills and whatever else lay behind their front doors. For me, it was a rare glimpse at my mother being "Monique." That fleeting glimpse of "her" rather than "mine."

I remember the old Big Y and its half-lit, neon orange "BIG Y" sign sitting over the entrance to the grocery store. This was back when grocery stores weren't the cathedrals of food they have become. The aisles were cramped, the lighting dim and the PA system incessantly calling "Deli, you have a call on line 1" and "Price check at register 3." Driving there, sitting in the front seat (and not squished between my parents - but the real front seat) of our old pea green station wagon. It was the late 1970's, simple times before the life changing events that were to come in only another year or two. My mom and me doing the weekly groceries. An hour or so of just us, where occasionally if I played it just right I got a strip of button candies and a small baggie of caramels. We would chew on the soft, brown gooey treats all the way home. Every now and then I would have a new book to pour over all afternoon, sitting in the quiet shade of our yard. These trips to Big Y and the treats bestowed upon me were errands at the time, more about the possibility of candy than bonding time.

Looking back with some mothering under my own belt, I see them for what they were. With five children under one roof... when the opportunity to spend time with one presents itself, you take it. Of course, my mother could have also taken the precious hour to herself and left me home with everyone else. But then, that wasn't how my mother operated.

I remember crawling into the back of that same station wagon in the middle of the night only to wake up in Canada. I still have no idea when she packed our bags. My father would be half asleep mumbling and loving every minute of her spontaneous road trips, "You're nuts. You know that? Its still dark out for crying out loud." And there my mom would be, door open, hustling us out of the house. "Let's go, let's go! I want to be there before dinner!" Seven of us packed into a car for hours, eating green seedless grapes and pears.

These simple memories, these lasting impressions don't include holidays or vacations. They aren't centered around fancy gifts or lavish living. I've come to learn that that's when mothering happens, that's when what matters is revealed. Every day, on a simple walk down the street or a trip to the grocery store. A mother and daughter driving home, windows down and mouths happily chewing on penny candy.

This is what my mother does best.

She makes the everyday, the little things, the forgettable moments... completely memorable.